Shot in the Dark
by Wandrian
Summary: Belle Tinker had been drunk—very drunk—when she mistook 221 Baker Street as her own flat. From there impressions are made, trouble ensues, and then something that is not always so easy to deduce. Sherlock/OC.
1. Adventures in Intoxication

"_Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator_."  
-Sherlock Holmes

— **Shot in the Dark** —  
(Chapter One: "Adventures in Intoxication")

When Belle Tinker drunkenly teetered up to 221 Baker Street in the dead of night, disoriented and bleeding from a stumble over a rubbish bin, she was more than unpleasantly surprised when the key to her new flat did not unlock the front door.

"This looks like the place, doesn't it?" she asked sluggishly, turning towards the street in question, and then proceeded to shrug when receiving no response. She tried the lock again. "Well, shit."

Her eyes widened and then tapered as they attempted to focus on the keyhole. The yellow haze of the streetlamp behind seemed to warp her vision all the more, and Belle lurched forwards and grasped the doorknob with small, trembling hands, the key previously in her grasp being launched towards the dark London street.

"_Aha_!" she shouted with vehemence, momentarily startling herself by the sudden volume of her voice and stumbling briefly because of it. She then glowered at the knob. "You cannot trick me you dastardly door. Beg for mercy and I shall let you live! No? Fine! _En Garde_, swine!"

Seven rather forceful kicks to the door later, each pound resounding into the darkness and reverberating rather painfully through her tibia, Belle found herself once again surprised that night, but more pleasantly so. The black door creaked open, a mere couple of inches, and bright eyes filled the new space beyond.

Belle withdrew her boot, blinking owlishly.

"Hey," she slurred. "Who the hell are you?"

The door swung open an additional couple inches, revealing an older woman in a lavender-colored nightgown (complete with lacy frills) with an expression of apprehension fixed across her open, elegant face. Her eyes glimmered, her mouth curving into a perfect sphere of surprise.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!"

Belle stiffened, "Where?" then, peering once again at the older woman, this time stepping forward and encroaching her personal space with narrowed, probing eyes: "Hugo? Why do you look like an old woman? Purple is really not your color, mate."

The woman bristled and took a step back, the door swinging open in the process. She shook her head, voice gentle albeit hesitant.

"I am not Hugo, dearie-"

"Drat."

"-and I do believe you are quite lost."

"Lost? Quite lost?" Belle looked around wildly, mouth agape, and nearly lost her balance. She looked back at the older woman, fear flashing across her dark eyes. "Quite lost where? Where am I? I can't be quite lost. This is my flat. Hugo? Why do you look like an old woman? Purple is really not your-"

"I am not Hugo, dear," the woman repeated. "You can call me Mrs. Hudson and, _yes_, you are most certainly quite lost and very much drunk."

Belle quirked an eyebrow. "I am?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Yes."

"Are you sure?"

Another nod.

"Drat," Belle sighed. "I knew it, Hugo."

"Mrs. Hudson," she corrected.

Belle peered around. "Where?"

"Right here!"

"Oh!" Belle smiled, then: "Who are you?"

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Hugo?"

"_Mrs. Hudson_!"

"I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

Belle shrugged, chuckling jovially. "I don't know! Wait," she blinked languidly, brows furrowing over large, glazed eyes. "What are you doing in my flat? _Are you drunk_?"

"No, nor am I Hugo."

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Mrs. Hudson released a heavy sigh through flared nostrils, reminding Belle of a strange, infuriated, miniature horse, and thusly began chortling with so much uninhibited mirth that she nearly flopped onto the ground. When she grasped the door for balance, the older woman before her abruptly gasped with dismay.

"Oh, you poor thing!" she exclaimed, startling Belle when she grabbed her forearms, carefully turning her palms skyward. The older woman clucked her tongue. "Silly girl, you've torn your hands to shreds."

"Huh," Belle muttered, peering down at the congealing blood swathed across her palms. "Would ya look at that, Hugo."

"Mrs. Hudson," the woman corrected offhandedly, examining the various lesions, pulling Belle closer towards the warm light of the flat. She shook her head, quirking a maternal brow. "You're too inebriated at the moment to feel this right now, but you definitely will once you sleep it off. How did this happen?"

"Um," Belle pondered, mashing her lips together in thought. She swayed for a moment, steadied by Mrs. Hudson's firm hold. Then, suddenly, her eyes widened. "Rubbish bin!"

"Rubbish bin?"

"Yes! I took it out."

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Took it out?"

Belle experimentally tugged against the woman's hold, but shrugged when Mrs. Hudson's grip tightened. She swayed once more; shrugging her shoulders again, one corner of her mouth lifting in a good-natured, cockeyed grin.

"Not on a date," she said, chuckling at the absurdity. "Are you drunk, Hugo? I ran into it. In an alleyway. Ya know, _took it out_. But I apologized."

Mrs. Hudson suppressed a smile. "Apologized?"

"You bet," Belle nodded solemnly. "And _profusely_. And then we both went on our merry way."

"Oh, really?"

"Really."

Mrs. Hudson released another lengthy sigh, then commenced to startle Belle when she began pulling her across the threshold and into the cozy warmth of the building. She stumbled along, her vision once again tilting helter-skelter as her legs were being forced to move.

"Whoaaa, Nelly," she slurred, haphazardly attempting to slap away Mrs. Hudson's hands. "Not so fast. Not sooo faaastah."

The older woman glanced behind, furrowing her brows as she led Belle further into the heart of the flat. It smelled old, and the familiar and comforting scent of used books congested Belle's already dimmed senses, and the cocked smile began to once again spread across her face. There were other scents, other sights, and other sounds (for a moment she faltered—was that a _violin_?), but all seemed rather muddled to Belle the further she ventured into the flat.

There was a gentle tug at her wrist.

"Come, come," Mrs. Hudson chided. "I'm not about to leave a young thing like you bleeding at my front door. Come along, now. We'll bandage you up nicely and ring you a cab. I'll grab that doctor fellow and make some tea. Goodness knows those two are still up at this hour, the way Sherlock flits about at night."


	2. Mrs Hudson's Kitchen Floor

Author's Note: Thank you kindly for the reviews—they help immensely.

— **Shot in the Dark** —  
(Chapter Two: "Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen Floor")

Belle's conspiratorial whispers filled the kitchen.

"What did…what did…drat, how does it go? Oh! What did one saggy tit say to the other saggy tit?" she began, head bent close to the porcelain cow creamer she was conversing with. She waited a beat, then: "Perk up or they'll think we're nuts!"

Mrs. Hudson had deposited Belle Tinker in her dainty, floral kitchen not a minute before, murmuring, "Sit down, dear. I'll fetch John. Oh, I do hope that he is still up and about. I can hear that violin _again_, so Sherlock must at least be awake."

"Sherry?" Belle queried, head lolling from side to side as she peered around the kitchen, disoriented, eventually focusing on the older woman with glazed, half-lidded eyes. "Who's Sherry? And Juan? Hugo, where are you going? For drinks? Very good. Good, good, good. Begone, Hugo! The drinks await!"

Having been shooed out of her own kitchen, Mrs. Hudson left the young, inebriated girl to her own devices. The echoes of the older woman's footfall ascending a set of stairs could still be heard throughout the first floor of the flat, but was soon drowned out as Belle dissolved into a fits of laughter.

"Not funny? No? Drat," she slurred a moment later, having calmed herself enough to nod somberly at the cow creamer. "You must be under a lot of stress."

— — —

(one minute and twenty-three seconds later)

— — —

"Did she mention her name?"

"Oh dear, no. I didn't even think to ask. Although the poor girl does keep referring me to someone named Hugo."

"Hugo?"

"Yes, and I was informed that purple is not his color. Or mine, apparently."

"Um…what?"

"Never you mind, John, she's beginning to wake. And just in time for a spot of tea."

Consciousness came slowly to Belle, whose eyes fluttered open to a hazy vision of the kitchen. She blinked lethargically, and when the cloudiness finally cleared, the distinct clink and clatter of porcelain tableware filling her ears were made manifest when Mrs. Hudson set a quaint tea cup and saucer before her.

Belle opened her mouth to give thanks; instead, she released a watery burp. Then hiccupped.

"Wow," a voice said close to her left. "Impressive. Forget a mere pub; I think she may have knocked back an entire distillery. That's _whiskey _breath. It'll take more than one wink for her to sleep that off."

Belle jolted at the voice, swaying in her seat, which caused her vision to once again swim. The pastel colors of the kitchen began to smudge together, causing her to blink rather rapidly at the profile of a man sitting by her side. It was another moment before the kitchen and all of its shades righted themselves, and she peered wide-eyed at the strange man next to her.

"Hello there," he said in a pleasant voice. "I'm John. What's your name?"

Peering much more closely than social norms suggested, Belle drunkenly scrutinized the man named John. He didn't recoil at her sudden closeness, their nose tips nearly touching, but visibly tensed as her eyes raked his appearance, taking in everything from his thick woolen sweater to his sandy blonde hair with suspicious, narrowed eyes. His brows began to furrow, looking hesitant. It was when her gaze met his that she, too, tensed. A sense of harrowing familiarity filled her when surveying his dark blue irises. Her nostrils flared, fear and seemingly unjustified anger quaking from her insides and spreading like hot jolts of lightning to her fingertips.

She reared back, stumbling upright, sending her chair clattering loudly to the floor. Belle breathed heavily, the edges of her vision blurring once again. The stark confusion in his eyes sent her whiskey-influenced emotions to skyrocket as flashes of memories streaked throughout her mind.

He seemed to realize what she was about to do the moment before she did it.

"Whoa, whoa," he started, palms out in surrender. "Settle down there. Wait! Wai—_oof_!"

In a surprising motion of grace, Belle swung out and clocked him across the face. Like her chair, he was sent clattering to the floor, just less wood and more flailing limbs and woolen sweater. He fought with his own chair as he made to stand, and in her drunken zeal, Belle was readying herself for another go at him. In her periphery she saw Mrs. Hudson clutching her tea pot, the whites of her eyes stark and alarmed, and then she gave a shout.

"Sherlock!" the older woman cried, "Do something!"

Belle whirled around, startled by the presence standing remote at the kitchen's threshold. She staggered a step, suddenly dizzy from all the rapid movements her brain was demanding out of her alcohol-riddled body. Her previous burst of anger began to sizzle out of her fingertips until it became completely forgotten, and for the moment she stood blinking, bewildered and all the more disoriented, her vision going topsy-turvy.

"Why?" came the baritone response from the archway. "One would think that John would be used to this sort of treatment from women by now."

Doctor John Watson finally removed himself from the kitchen floor, wavering slightly on his feet. He steadied himself against Mrs. Hudson's table, shaking his head quickly in attempt to rid himself of the undulating pain. Then, taking a moment to carefully dab at a tender spot at the corner of his mouth and frowning at the blood on his fingertips, he nodded towards Belle, feeling quite scandalized.

"S'e puncht me rit inda faze!" he garbled, revealing blood-coated teeth.

"Obviously."

It was then that Belle's vision began to clear, everything stilling and settling into their right place. Like John, she grasped the edge of the table, steadying herself as she fought for her bearings.

"Well," she slurred, speaking more to herself than the three sets of eyes that were staring at her in three very different expressions—upset, wary, and analytical. "Thank drunk I'm not God, or this would be fuck as awkward."

A scoff resounded from her right.

"Fascinating," came the voice from before, a rich tone that sounded less than impressed. "Mrs. Hudson, please refrain from pulling drunken women off the streets at night, it does not do wonders for John's health. But at least now he has something to _blog _about. How riveting."

Belle wobbled, blinking angrily as his appearance slowly focused into view. Her brows furrowed at the sight of him, standing tall and lean in a blue dressing gown, twisting a violin bow between his fingers as he gazed imperiously down his nose at her. The night shadows in the flat brought stark relief to his features, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and naturally quirked lips. Even in her drunken state, Belle studied and determined that he was more than merely eccentric and haughty, but possibly highly volatile the way his eyes continued to taper the longer she stared at him.

She shivered, even though the idiosyncratic way his eyes never faltered but seemed to perpetually observe, Belle had the discomforting feeling that the shrewd scrutiny in his eyes as he evaluated her in return suggested that he could read her far more deeply than she could him.

"You must be Sherry," she slurred accusatorily, narrowing her eyes.

"_Sherlock_!"

Belle jumped as the man named John glowered over at him, dutifully ignoring her acknowledgment. She raised a brow, eyes half-lidded, and noticed that Mrs. Hudson's cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

"Good God," he replied, sounding aghast, eyes darting between the two. "This truly is riveting to you, isn't it? She is as intellectually stimulating as the rather large pool of drool she left behind on Mrs. Hudson's table. I can't even be bothered in pretending to be interested."

"You never bother," John said heatedly, then turned to pat Mrs. Hudson's shoulder. "Don't worry; he's in a mood tonight. Hence the violin at one in the morning."

"I am _not _in a _mood_."

John glowered once more, but this time much more pointedly. There was a moment of silence.

"I apologize, Mrs. Hudson. By the look John's giving me, apparently that was rude."

Mrs. Hudson smiled softly. "No need to apologize, dear. We're all tired."

Belle giggled, more to herself than anything else, and glanced between the two men. She teetered on her feet again, and just caught herself from tumbling over.

"You two sound like an old married couple."

John bristled. "We're _not_-"

"John, fetch me my revolver."

This seemed to pluck at Belle's inebriated heartstrings even more, because the giggling increased its pitch and tempo until she was bent over the kitchen table, laughing with so much gusto that it became difficult for her to breathe. Suddenly, the kitchen lurched, the muted colors once again swirling as all her senses went completely haywire.

One moment she was upright, and then the next she found herself amassing confidence in gravity as the floor started tilting towards her face at a very startling rate. Instead, her knees knocked together and she stumbled to the side before completely losing all of her physical faculties. She tumbled into something both yielding and solid, and her mind registered that two large hands had grabbed her by the wrists, halting her only fleetingly. The momentum of her fall was too great, however, and caught them both off guard and sent them tumbling towards Mrs. Hudson's hard kitchen floor.

His grip crushed her wrists when they were both momentarily airborne, one being sent hurdling face forward, the other blindly bracing himself for impact. They fell with a _whoosh_! as the air was knocked out of their lungs, both taking a second to groan in pain, settling in a jumble of limbs on the floor.

When she opened her eyes, Belle wasn't under the influence enough to not notice that she was settled atop of this strange man named Sherlock, and could feel the silk of his dress robe against her exposed skin, could feel how warm and unyielding he was. His hard breathing matched her own, and she blinked with stunned, drunken surprise at him. In new light, so up close, Belle saw how vividly his dark, nearly unruly hair contrasted with his pale skin. And he was regarding her, too—very bold and very bright blue eyes were staring at her with a diagnostically sharp gaze. The more her eyes trailed across his face, the more his brows commenced to furrow.

"Hey," she breathed, smiling slightly, then proceeded to point at his nose. "You have a booger."


	3. Tinkering

Author's Note: I'm glad that everyone seems to be enjoying this fic; even I had to giggle/snort at the whole 'booger' part. But I'm psyched to be writing a much more sober Belle soon, because, well, let's just say there's a Bruce Banner to the Hulk kind of transformation when she's not utterly intoxicated. Well, not literally. You get my drift. Actually, it is a bit accurate. Okay. No spoilers. You know what? Please stay tuned.

— **Shot in the Dark** —  
(Chapter Three: "Tinkering")

"Ow."

"_Ow_."

"Ow!"

"Shit, Juan. _Ow_."

Doctor John Watson suppressed a grin as he stood in front of the kitchen sink, methodically washing his hands and listening to the girl's inebriated, nonsensical chatter. Finishing, he fixed his brows into an exasperated furrow and rounded on her.

"I was done bandaging your hands _two _minutes ago!"

Various sorts of general medical tackle was spread across the tabletop, and the girl in question was currently affixed on the stark white bandages that had been deftly wrapped around her palms, eyes narrowed with mistrust as she poked at the bindings. The scrapes had proven to be rather superficial—mere shreds of skin that stood like stalagmites, tinted pink with blood that had already coagulated. _Child's play_, he thought, briefly reminiscing over the far worse scenarios he had experienced as an army doctor.

Still, Mrs. Hudson had hovered over his shoulder, twisting her hands in worry as he proficiently cleaned and dressed the girl's abrasions, a result—of all things—over a drunken 'misunderstanding' with a rubbish bin. The corners of John's mouth quirked at the thought, but hurriedly wiped it off when he could feel Sherlock's intense, perpetually vigilant eyes on his face. He had to be careful. Every reaction and response would be filed away in the man's brilliant (if infuriating) mind for later usage.

He smothered another smile.

The world's only consulting detective now stood across from the girl, tucked away in the corner of the kitchen and almost entirely shadowed from sight. It was clear to John that he was still brooding over the Great Booger Incident, having immediately shoved her off of him at her very forthright observation. His back to them, John didn't see Sherlock furtively wipe his nose as he strode irritably to the corner, but the doctor had amused himself with the vision of smoke billowing out of his nostrils like some provoked bull (but, of course, _with a booger_).

Now, John noted that Sherlock stood stiff and remote, his violin bow held in a tight grasp like a swordsman readied to parry. His eyes were tapered and locked onto the girl.

She had stopped poking at her bindings and was peering up at John with large, glazed eyes, regarding him in an almost surprised expression, as if just remembering he was there. "Oh. Right."

Mrs. Hudson sidled up to her, nursing a new cup of tea. "How are you feeling, dear?"

She jumped.

"_Ah_, Hugo! Hey. _Hey, hey, hey_. You got a drink? I could go for a drink. Drinks all around!" the girl stood, effectively knocking her chair aside. Her hands then clenched the air above the tabletop, clearly envisioning a pint of beer to toast with. She looked at Mrs. Hudson with sad eyes. "Hugo, where's my drink?"

A deep, standoffish voice then came from the corner, sounding much more petulant than goaded.

"Who the bloody hell is Hugo?" Sherlock demanded, eyes not once leaving the girl's face. He seemed incensed of the fact that he had to ask.

John quirked a brow in his direction, smirking. "Haven't you deduced that yet?"

Sherlock scowled. "Oh, such wit."

John turned towards the girl, an amused smile playing on his lips. He ignored the barely audible grumble from the corner, and instead focused his attention on how Mrs. Hudson had persuaded her back into the chair, helping her to cradle a fresh cup of tea into unsteady hands. His landlady patted the girl's back, speaking in soft, comforting whispers. The girl immediately relaxed, shoulders slumping, eyelids fluttering together with a small, serene smile across her face.

The doctor tilted his head to the side, noticing just how pretty the girl was when not in a drunken frenzy. Pretty, but certainly peculiar. Her lips were chapped and she had the most unruly mop of hair he had ever seen—a long mass of dark waves that went to her chest, cut unevenly and beginning to frizz. And she was _tiny_, dressed in tattered jeans, boots two sizes too large, and a white cotton shirt that bore fresh beer stains on the front. But her face had a lovely flush from the alcohol racing in her bloodstream, and a dimpled smile that cocked to the side. Her eyes were gray, and very bright and expressive, with epicanthic folds, suggesting Asian heritage. Her voice, however, was lilted with a very strong Irish brogue.

When tending to her hands, John had smelled burnt cinnamon and cigarettes, and possibly something floral beneath it all.

The smile soon vanished from her face, brows furrowing in the abrupt panic. Her nostrils flared, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Hugo! Hugo, where are you?" she said, gripping the table's edge. "I can't _see_."

John heard Sherlock sigh heavily. "Open your eyes."

"Oh," she said, blinking her eyes with relief, the glowered over to the detective. "Shut it, Sherry."

John failed to suppress a snort of amusement, resulting in a very disdainful glower from Sherlock, who surprisingly remained silent nonetheless. John watched him fasten his concentration once again onto the girl, eyes scarcely blinking, and turned to find her staring questioningly at Mrs. Hudson.

"Seriously, Hugo," she said. "Where's my drink?"

"I think you've had enough for one night, dear. Drink your tea. Then maybe you should think of getting some rest."

"You should get some rest too, Mrs. Hudson. It's a bit late," John said, moving to take her cup and saucer, setting in carefully in the sink, then nodded to the girl. "We'll take care of this one."

"No drinks?" the girl mumbled, looking down at her bandaged hands. "Sad now."

For a moment John thought he heard a nearly restrained snort from the corner, but his attention was pulled when Mrs. Hudson gently grabbed one of the girl's hands in her own. "Get some rest. All right, dearie?"

The girl blinked at their joined hands. "Why are you taking my hand? Now I'm left with only one."

Mrs. Hudson ignored her. "Goodnight, dear."

"You're leaving? Can I have your drink? _Wait_!" she abruptly stood, grasping Mrs. Hudson's hand in return, flinching when she squeezed too hard. She looked at the older woman with glossy, sincere eyes. "Wait, wait, wait…I just want to say…that you…well, purple _is _your color, Hugo, no matter what I…uh, said. Yes. That was…um, that was awfully say of me to rude."

Mrs. Hudson patted her hand. "No need to apologize."

"But when did you grow boobs?"

The next moment saw Mrs. Hudson retreating down the hall to her bedroom, smiling in amusement despite herself. The remaining three watched the older woman disappear from view, and John was momentarily lost in thought when he saw the girl shift in his periphery. Her chair squeaked as she leaned forward.

"Psst."

John peered down at her. "What?"

"_Psst_."

His lips twitched. "What?"

"Hey. Hey, you."

"What?"

"Juan."

He smiled, voice gentle but firm. "It's John."

"Juan?"

"_John_."

"Oh, right. Juan."

"No, John."

"I'm not Juan."

"Neither am I."

"Silly. You're John."

"No, wait...yes!"

"Will you two shut up!" Sherlock shouted, bristling in the corner.

John found himself nearly breaking into a grin, especially when the girl peered at Sherlock and blinked owlishly at him, neither surprised nor affronted by his outburst. She shifted her gaze back to him, her drunkenly glazed eyes momentarily gleaming mischievously although her expression remained completely ingenuous.

She waited a beat.

"Juan, methinks Sherry is PMSing," she stated, then met Sherlock's hawkish gaze. "Hey, you need a heating pad? Chocolate?"

John openly guffawed at this, unable to contain himself. Sherlock ignored him and tapered his eyes into a threatening, rapt glare. John knew immediately he was in a dangerous mood. But there was more to it than that. He was taking umbrage from the girl, but it was also evident that he was _curious_—an even more dangerous thing when it came to Sherlock Holmes. When he spoke it was quiet, firm, and very cold.

Sherlock's grip on the violin bow tightened.

"What's—your—_name_?"

The girl pensively clenched and unclenched her bandaged hands. A lock of hair fell into her face, and she brushed it aside to the rest of her unruly mane, brows furrowing as she mused over this question with great consideration. She hummed for a moment, and then her eyes brightened.

"Um…Belle. Yes? No? Wait. Kidding. It's Belle. Belle something. Something with, uh…shit. Not literal shit, but mechanical shit. Not like robots, though. Dude that does shit with mechanical shit," she began, squishing her lips together in thought. A moment later, eyes wide with epiphany, she exclaimed: "Tinker! Yes! Belle Tinker. I knew it. I knew I knew it. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, 007. Why do you want to know, Sherry? Am I doing great with you?"

At this, John perceived the rather unpleasant look that Sherlock was giving Belle, and stepped in before he could verbally lash her to pieces. The detective was just beginning to prickle when he stepped forward and smiled kindly to her.

"Is there someone we can call for you?" John asked. "Friend? Family? Do you have a mobile?"

"Don't bother," Sherlock stated brusquely, looking less like he was gnashing his teeth and once more like his customary self, complete with imperious stare. His eyes narrowed on Belle, flicking from her wrists to her hair and settling intently on her face. "It's not on her."

There was a moment of silence wherein Belle leaned against the table, matching Sherlock's concentrated stare. John found himself suddenly as the median between two very unpredictable and very contrasting personalities, and tensed as the air between the two grew very weighty, their eyes locked on the others—one cold and calculating and the other glassy and disoriented. Her eyes tapered, chapped lips settling into a thin line as she scrutinized Sherlock the way he did her.

"Look at it," she whispered. "It's just dangling there."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. "Look at _what_?"

"Your bogey."

John gurgled. As he attempted to muffle his laughter, doing his best to cover his mouth and breathe evenly, Sherlock rounded his piercing attention on him, eyes flashing with provocation. John shrugged, defeated and grinning widely. "I think she's messing with you, _Sherry_."

"A valued deduction, _Juan_," Sherlock countered. He turned to Belle. "Do you remember your address?"

"Um…yes?"

"Good. John, phone a taxi. I'll see to it that she makes it home. Wouldn't want her to drunkenly barge into any other residences, would we?"

It was John's turn to blink owlishly at Sherlock. He even cocked his head to the side, bewildered.

"You will?" he asked, frowning. "Why?"

Sherlock regarded him with a cool stare, one that—like many others of his—was nearly impossible to interpret. Beyond the stare, however, was something else. Something that John was now accustomed to. Something that was beginning to bring that keyed up gleam into the detective's eyes—something that was much more than curiosity, but the stimulation of a new case. John looked between Belle and Sherlock, the former once again poking her bandages (_Ow_) and the later slowly raising an impatient brow towards him.

"Clearly she will need all of the help she can get."

John scoffed. "Yes, but why _you_?"

Sherlock straightened, lifting his chin. "Why not me?"

John narrowed his eyes, but rather than arguing with him, he sighed wearily. He pinched the bridge of his nose, gesturing to the girl, too exhausted to deliberate over Sherlock's perpetually indecipherable motives any further.

"Fine," he breathed. "Fine. It's a good arrangement as any, especially in her state. She's still quite legless, after all."

John missed the very faint smile of victory on Sherlock's face, especially when Belle's head perked up and she regarded the doctor with the utmost of surprise.

"Legless? What do you mean legless? Legolas? Am I in Middle-Earth?" she asked, peering around Mrs. Hudson's kitchen in wonder, then narrowed her gaze on John. "And you're _not _Juan—you're Bilbo, aren't you? Holy shit, I'm in Bag End!"


	4. Something Called Witching Hour

Author's Note: So, this was supposed to be updated nearly a week ago, but my laptop unexpectedly took a one-way ticket to the great Best Buy in the sky. I'm still shaking with relief that I'd backed up all my outlines and plot bunnies onto a hard drive not 15 minutes before it shuffled off its electrical coil. For the wait, I made this extra long. Also, there will come a time when Belle is not completely tanked-up. This just isn't it.

A warm thank you to all reviewers.

— **Shot in the Dark** —  
(Chapter Four: "Something Called Witching Hour")

A dressing gown was launched towards John's face the moment he set foot into the flat. He paused at the doorway, mobile suspended midair from having just ended a call with a cabbie, and blinked wearily at his flatmate when the silken folds slid to the floor. Sherlock tapered his eyes.

"Shut up."

John sighed as he pocketed his cell and meandered over to his chair, ignoring how the consulting detective was regarding him with his trademark cool, unflinching gaze. Sherlock was also in the midst of stalking the length of the living room, agitatedly buttoning a shirt over his chest. His pajamas had been haphazardly thrown onto the couch.

"I didn't say a thing," John responded mildly, suppressing another sigh because this was not the first time Sherlock had initiated a conversation in this manner. He raked a hand tiredly over his face and settled himself into a more comfortable position.

Sherlock's expression was scathing, one that was not unfamiliar to the doctor.

"I don't want to hear it," he said, pivoting on his heel and turning his back to John, resuming his pacing as he tucked the end of his shirt into his trousers.

John's lips twitched, but kept his tone nonchalant. "Don't want to hear what?"

"I told you to shut up."

"And I told you," John retorted, eyeing the detective. "I didn't say a thing."

"No," Sherlock's eyes narrowed again. "But I know what you're thinking. Stop it."

"Oh? A telepathist now too, are you?"

Sherlock raised his chin into the air, gazing imperiously down his nose at him. In one swift movement he whisked the dressing gown from off the floor, folded it promptly while his eyes narrowed on John, and then abruptly—and rather effectively—used it as a projectile once more.

"You are ten seconds away from asking me what I've deduced about her," he replied, deep voice rumbling as irritation flashed in his eyes. "Stop playing coy, it's annoying."

John removed the meddlesome cloth from his face for the second time that night, tossing it to join the pajamas strewn across the couch. He raised a brow at Sherlock, attempting to look put off as he took another moment of silence to further provoke his flatmate. Then he shrugged.

"All right, fine. Leave it to you to see right through me. Or everything," he said, faintly smiling when Sherlock scowled. "What have you got?"

Sherlock halted. He took a very deep breath, his chest rising and pulling at the buttons of his shirt, and closed his eyes. For a moment, John was stunned to see that his brows furrowed in an expression of uncertainty. Then his eyes snapped open, exhaled in a huff, regarded John with a penetrating glance, and commenced his pacing. He buttoned the cuffs of his plum-colored shirt with swift flicks of his wrists, lips moving very faintly as he racked his brain. When he finished, he abruptly halted once more, hands pressing together into his characteristic prayer pose, fingertips pressing against his lips. Finally, he sighed, turning on his heel and looking dismayed.

He glanced at John.

"She's…" Sherlock paused for a moment. "Irish."

John blinked. Then began sputtering.

"She's…what? She's _Irish_?" John choked on a laugh. "Really, Sherlock? Any bloke off the street could gather that, or are my ears deceiving me? Don't tell me you don't know her mother's birthday, what's her favorite program on the telly, or whether or not she prefers chocolate over vanilla?"

Sherlock scowled. "Shut up."

"How is this possible? You…_really_? You've got nothing?" John's lips pressed into a smirk, always savoring the moments when getting a rise out of Sherlock. "I never thought I'd see the day. Honestly, who would have thought a completely arseholed girl would manage to elude the almighty Sherlock Holmes? I like her already."

Sherlock was in the midst of pulling on a jacket, eyes rather cold and never leaving John's face. A tendon in his jaw popped. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

John grinned. "Massively."

The consulting detective straightened, clearly taking this as a challenge, and rose to the bait.

"She's Irish," Sherlock repeated, his tone taking on its quick, calculating timbre whenever he began citing facts in rapid-fire sequence. Or—to John—_showing off_, even if it never ceased to astound. "Southern by the dialect. Connacht, presumable—Galway, or maybe the Aran Islands. She's been in London for nine days, three hours, and, oh—" he glanced at the clock. "—eight minutes."

"How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock's lips quirked triumphantly, strode over to the couch and produced a small, rectangular piece of paper between two fingers. "Plane ticket. Aer Lingus. Boarded from Shannon Airport."

"How on earth did you get that?"

"When she displayed her inebriated lack of grace and tumbled into me. It was in her back pocket."

"So, not only did you essentially pick-pocket her," John smirked again. "But you touched her bum in the process. It's all very clear to me now."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sliding the plane ticket into the inner-pocket of his jacket. He continued, giving the doctor another scathing look. "Mid-twenties, a student by the state of her nails—gnawed to the ends and stained in various shades of pen ink. Paper-cuts as well. Also, and more interestingly enough, she is quite adept at fist fighting."

John frowned. "Fist fighting? That small thing? You reasoned that because she happened to clout me in the face?"

"Oh, no. No, John. I happened to reason that because if she had not been utterly intoxicated and hadn't stumbled, that right hook would have thrown you to the ground and possibly render you unconscious. Her form was precise, a movement her body was well attuned with," Sherlock said shrewd delight. Then he scowled, looking at the doctor with disappointment. "How could you not have noticed? You bandaged her hands, for Christ's sake. Did you not detect the scars littering her knuckles? No. No, that 'small thing', as you put it, is not quite as jovial when sober. She is also missing her cellphone. Women her age do not venture anywhere, especially a new city, without it. Interesting."

"You think she lost it?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, turning as he began to resume his pacing. "The front pockets of her denims are fake, and the back were a mere inch and a half in depth—not very commonsensical to carry a mobile in. Where would she keep it? No purse, no money, no ID. She left in a hurry—hours ago by the age of the beer stains on her shirt. Statistics show that 65% of alcohol consumption is stimulated from emotional quandaries. A row, maybe?"

"With a boyfriend?"

Sherlock's gaze sharpened. "Perhaps."

"She's new to London. Maybe she was feeling lonely."

"No. She had every intention of making it home for the night, otherwise she wouldn't have mistaken our flat for her own. You looked at her, John. If she had been truly lonesome then some drunkard would have offered her a bed for the night. She had a row before leaving for the pub, and had left in a hurry. I wonder…" Sherlock drifted off, his thoughts clearly ruminating. He seemed to snap out of it, however, tone becoming blasé as ever. "Otherwise, she has nothing to offer. Everything else is child's play—the ticket, the ink stains, and her penchant for Jameson and Smithwicks. She is completely uninhibited. Boring. Dull. She'd tell you her life's story in that state given adequate incitement. No, I'll bide my time."

John's gaze turned thoughtful, watching as Sherlock adjusted his suit jacket more comfortably around his shoulders. A moment passed, and when Sherlock peered up, his eyes immediately narrowed on his flatmate, suspicious.

"What?"

"You'll bide your time?" John reiterated with a raised brow. "You _are _curious."

Sherlock raised his chin, lips pressing together, clearly unimpressed.

"I do not have all the facts in her current state."

"Is she truly that much of an enigma to peak your interest this badly?" John teased, settling back into his chair, watching with amusement as the detective glowered at him. "So badly that you even _offered _to see her home?"

"Stop reading into this, John," Sherlock's deep tone was almost scornful. "All I can deduce from that girl is that she is hiding something and I want to know what."

John's eyes widened. "Hiding something? What could she possibly be hiding?"

"Everyone hides something. It's a fact of life. It's entrenched within the very nature of humankind. Some are just more clever about hiding them than others," Sherlock said, then frowned at the doctor. "You were there when she irrationally punched you in the face, were you not?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You did not see the flash of complete rational anger in her eyes before doing so?" Sherlock raised a brow, sighing with frustration at John's expression of ignorance. "You look familiar to her, John, even if in just that split second. I want to know _why_."

John frowned, disbelieving. "She's pissed! A complete loon."

"Come now, John, even you know that's the whiskey talking," Sherlock scolded, then ran a hand along his jaw, raking his brain. His expression turned pensive, and muttered: "But why? Why would she do that?"

John snorted. "Punch me or inform you of an impending bogey?"

Sherlock twisted around, narrowing his icy gaze on him, but not before subconsciously rubbing the tip of his nose. The joke, however, was lost on him. "Shall I inform you of an impending beating? No, John, _punch _you. Are you even trying to be a part of this conversation?"

John smirked at that. "You're such a liar."

"Pardon me?"

"I think you are far more interested than you let on. You know something. Something more than what you're letting on," John's pleasant smile was offset by the glimmer of mischievousness in his eyes. He reached over and grabbed his laptop, ignoring how Sherlock was visibly bristling. "But no need to worry. _I _think you've made a friend, Sherry."

"Oh, do the world a favor and do shut up," Sherlock said derisively, rolling his eyes, pivoting on a heel and grabbing his coat. "Stop insulting my intelligence, it merely insults your own. How long?"

John peered up from his laptop. "How long until what?"

"The cabbie arrives."

"Any minute now, which is a good thing. It's probably a mistake leaving her alone downstairs," John said, glancing towards the door. "You know, to her own devices 'n all."

Sherlock raised a brow as he buttoned his coat. "What exactly do you think she is capable of in her state of being? The worse she can do is stumble over a chair and lose her tea all over Mrs. Hudson's recently dusted china."

John chuckled at that the thought, missing how a ghost of a smile flitted across Sherlock's lips. The detective quickly pulled on a pair of leather gloves, looping his signature indigo scarf around his neck.

"And you're going to see her home," John stated, still amused. "Because Sherlock Holmes is a gentleman and will refrain from gleaning information out of drunk, mysterious women."

"Of course," Sherlock responded, an almost devious glint in his eyes as he strode to the door. "Where would the fun be in that?"

— — —

(two minutes and fifteen seconds later)

— — —

Belle narrowed her eyes.

Baker Street spread out before her, empty and eerily quiet during witching hour. It had been drizzling during her interlude inside 221B, causing the streetlamps that dotted the walkways to reflect their orange haze against the puddles in the street. Her eyes darted from one end of the street to the other, breaching the night silence with a cackle.

"Penis," she whispered, and commenced to stifle a bout of giggles.

As if in response, the door to 221 behind her was slammed closed. Belle jumped, eyes widening like a frightened foal, and whirled around. She found herself colliding face-first into a hard chest, nosing skimming the rough tweed fabric of a coat, and caught the faint, familiar scent of tobacco comingled with soap. She jerked back, swaying precariously on her feet until a hand shot out and steadied her by the shoulder.

"_Bloody hell!_" Belle exclaimed, blinking her eyes rapidly in surprise and craning her gaze upward. She blinked again, the streetlamp close to them causing the edges of her vision to temporarily cloud. When it cleared, she was too inebriated to realize she was being imperiously studied. "Where the hell did you come from, Sherry? Did Scotty beam you up?"

The icy blue eyes that were regarding her solemnly, face nearly expressionless, flickered over her shoulder. Belle swayed, turning to glance at whatever caught his attention. A cab was slowly making its way towards them, headlights dipping, the sound of its tires sloshing becoming more pronounced as it drove closer.

When Belle glanced back, she smiled goofily, still ignorant of the fact that she was being intensively watched. Sherlock promptly withdrew his hands, taking a half a step away from her. She swayed again, unsupported, watching him watch her with his shrewd, careful stare.

"Hey," she said.

He raised a brow.

"Hey, you. Sherry."

His eyes scarcely narrowed. "It's Sherlock."

"Sure thing, Sherry. _Hey_."

"What?"

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like _what_?" he responded tetchily.

Belle smothered a sloppy grin, pointing at him and almost falling over from the amount of gusto she put into the gesture. "Like you suffer from chronic constipation and I'm a vat full of prune juice."

Sherlock was in the midst of responding, brows furrowed and lips parting to offer his own caustic observation, when the taxi pulled up in front of them. He closed his mouth, dutifully ignored the drunken gleam of mischief in Belle's eyes, and strode forward to open the cab's door.

"Evening," he greeted the cabbie, then pivoted on his heel to Belle, eyes sharp and serious. "What is your address?"

Belle's face crumpled into confusion. "Address?"

He sighed heavily at that, closing his eyes for a moment. When he spoke, Sherlock's voice was an even deeper baritone from the barely restrained irritation it held. "Where do you live?"

"Um, in a flat."

Sherlock's lips twitched. "Clearly, as you've mistaken mine for yours. Where?"

Belle grinned, noticing the twitch, then hunched her shoulders when a chilly draft of wind blew up the street. She pushed away the unruly mane of hair from her face with uncoordinated movements, then began rubbing the exposed flesh of her arms, wincing at her bandaged hands. His gaze caught hers the next moment, a brow slowly raising in rapidly dwindling patience.

"Where?" he repeated, a fist clenching at his side.

"On a street."

He sighed again. "What street?"

"My street."

"_Woman_."

"_Sherry_."

The responding glare that Belle received immediately exterminated her next vague, drunken reply, and she blinked innocently in response, startled by the sheer vehemence radiating from the keen blue irises. She swallowed hard, then commenced to shrug nonchalantly.

"Um, 323 Glentworth Street. Right? Right. Wait, who am I talking to?" Belle questioned, peering into the dark, empty streetside to her left. She blinked in confusion, then noticed Sherlock, revelation then etching across her face. "Oh, right. Not me. Sherry! _Hey_, how are you? Taking a cab somewhere? Watcha, cabbie!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "323 Glentworth Street," he repeated, grabbing her arm to gain her full attention. "Are you sure?"

"Sure I'm sure," Belle said, peering down with curiosity at his fingers wrapped firmly around her wrist. Then, a beat: "Sure."

"Of course you would live the next street over," Sherlock muttered offhandedly, then turned to the cabbie and nodded. "Apologies. We won't be needing your services tonight. Cheers."

Sherlock slammed the door before the driver could respond, and promptly turned his heel to face Belle, expression unreadable. It was when another waft of wind fanned between them that his eyes narrowed in scrutiny once more. It was a mere nighttime gust, chilly but not strong, yet Belle drunkenly stumbled from the force of it in her too large boots. She righted herself at the last moment, then proceeded to chatter her teeth from the chill. She scrunched her nose, peering down at the tip with crossed-eyes, noticing how the wind had nipped it red.

"Hah," she said, pointing at her nose. "R-r-r-rudolph."

Sherlock remained impassive for a moment, watching her. Then, abruptly, he bent to meet her on eye-level. Her brows rose from the sudden closeness, eyes wide and startled, locking onto the point of his index finger that he had thrust in front of her face.

"_Stay_," he commanded, sharp eyes daring her to defy him.

Belle, instead, gave a wobbly salute. "Sir, yes sir."

He turned and briskly disappeared back into 221, door slamming shut behind him. He was gone for all of thirty seconds, but it was twenty seconds too long before an impish grin slowly expanded across Belle's face. She swayed, faltering once more as she turned to the unpeopled street. Belle pushed aside a lock of hair from her face, licking her chapped lips, eyeing up the roadway with drunken mirth, as though she was about to share some great secret with the world.

"Penis," she whispered for the second time that night, chortling and shivering against the wind's cold. Then, taking a lungful of oxygen and whipping her head back, shouted to the night sky, "_PENIS!_"

There was a click of a lock and suddenly a hand shot out, covering her mouth. Belle panicked, attempting to wrench herself away from the constricting grip of supple leather gloves. She then recognized the scent of tobacco and soap and began to relax, yet still moved her lips against the gloves to speak. Her brows furrowed.

"_Quiet_," Sherlock's resonant voice rumbled against her back. "You'll wake the neighbors. We don't want that."

He removed his hand, leaving Belle to face him, the impish grin once again cornering her mouth. She tottered, gray eyes glazed and gleaming in the streetlight.

"Penis," Belle whispered once more, compromising. Then, eyes brightening: "Do you have a penis? Methinks you do, Sherry. Because you're a dude. And dudes have penises. Penis! Penis all around!"

Sherlock scowled. "Shut up."

"Why?" Belle questioned, blinking at him, face etched with complete seriousness. "I don't have a penis. Penis! Wait, shit. I just committed some sort of social faux pas, didn't I?"

Sherlock's lips twitched again, but looked away from her expressive eyes. "Yes, but fortunately for you I happen to be quite adept at breaking them. Or so I have been told."

"Groovy, baby."

Sherlock nearly snorted, but made a noise in the back of his throat that read of complete and utter derision instead. But when Belle shuddered from the cold the wind left behind, rubbing at the goosebumps that had blossomed across her skin, Sherlock straightened and produced a thick, woolen cream-colored shawl from his coat pocket.

He offered it to her, face devoid of emotion. "It's Mrs. Hudson's—"

"Hugo!"

"_No_. Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock corrected, not impressed. "You do know how a shawl works, don't you? Even for someone who is completely pissed?"

Belle cocked her head to the side. "Who's pissed? I'm not pissed. I'm Belle."

Sherlock spoke through clenched teeth. "_Take_—_it_."

"Why?"

Sherlock lowered his gaze, leveling her with the fiercest of glares. She remained nonplussed and unfazed by the shrewd, hawkish relentlessness of the detective's eyes, or how they could render the average person entirely dumbstruck. The thought zipped through Sherlock's mind, causing him to taper his eyes further.

"Why?" she repeated.

His tone was dangerously low. "It will keep you warm."

Belle pressed her lips together. "Says who?"

He seemed to deliberate on something for a moment, then huffed, breath crystallizing into the night air, before he strode forward. In one swift movement, before Belle could blink or comprehend what was occurring or whisper 'penis', the shawl had been looped around her shoulders and tied deftly across her chest. He had been careful not to touch her, keeping his distance as much as humanly possible without the space impeding his work. He remained expressionless, nostrils only slightly flared from being provoked, and instantaneously stepped back once he finished.

Sherlock glowered again. "Says I. Now come along."

Before Belle could utter a response, he was walking past her, shoulders set, hands stuffed into the pockets of his long, tweed coat. Belle blinked once or twice before her cognitive reasoning managed to persuade her to follow after the man. She teetered after him, a slow process that had her clutching at her head when her vision immediately turned topsy-turvy, colors merging together into mind-numbing fuzz. Belle made it halfway down the street when the black speckle of his silhouette bled across her entire line of sight.

And, in effect, nearly tumbled into yet another rubbish bin.

He was at her side before the collision could occur, grasping her tightly by the elbow. He hadn't exuded any effort in the process, merely appeared and plucked her into an upright position, keeping his grip on her as Belle blinked repeatedly to regain her vision. He was close, very close, and if Belle hadn't been so inebriated, she would have taken note of the warmth of his radiating body heat, or how his eyes were watching her carefully, taking in every facet of her face, running swiftly down the length of her body, memorizing every feature. His expression, however, remained stoic, chin raised with the impression of perpetual aloofness.

Once Belle was finally able to focus, she peered up at Sherlock, a faint smile on her face, one that would have been almost considered lovely had it not been drunkenly cockeyed. For a millisecond, Sherlock's eyes lingered on a dimple that had appeared.

"Well, hello there," she slurred, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. "Come here often?"

His already cold gaze turned to ice. Sherlock retracted his hand and stuffed it back into his pocket. He did, however, remain in close proximity of her. When Belle straightened, she ran a hand through her mussed waves, brows furrowing.

"Hey, where the hell is my hat?"

Sherlock looked unamused. "You weren't wearing one."

"Oh. Well, shit," Belle said, sighing. She peered up at him then, blinking her eyes slowly as she registered just how close they were. Her eyes took in his face, the very white skin, sharp blue eyes, and even sharper cheekbones, then, finally, lingering on the dark tumbles of his hair, unaware that she was still be thoroughly studied in return. Instead, Belle clutched her hands to her heart, deeming it necessary to bat her eyelashes dramatically, saying, "You have beautiful eyes."

Sherlock snorted, turning away. Belle missed the brief flicker of a smile on his face, but he halted after taking a couple steps. His raised a brow imperiously. "Coming?"

Belle grinned impishly, taking careful, deliberate steps until she was standing at his side. He initiated their journey to cross the street, his strides long and determined, as though he were permanently impatient, but then he seemed to have reminded himself to slow his pace for her. He sighed heavily through his nostrils, waiting for her to catch up as he checked his speed.

"Sherry?"

Sherlock turned his head, catching Belle's curious, bright-eyed gaze. He raised a brow in recognition of her query.

"You're tall," she stated.

"I'm aware," he said blandly. "Thank you for sharing."

"I can see up your nose. You have _boogers_."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, locking his hands behind his back, slowing his stride to a casual stroll. One side of his mouth lifted, crinkling his eyes almost roguishly. "Yes, and I can see the top of your head. You have _dandruff_."

Belle mulled over this. "Touché."

It was at this point that they reached the curb, and Belle eyed it warily. Having sensed her stop behind him, Sherlock turned to see that she was still quite unsteady on her feet, shawl wrapped tightly around her small, alcohol-riddled body. She caught his gaze, and before he could take another step or open his mouth to speak, Belle had already leaned forward and caught his arm. She leaned onto him for support, encircling an arm around his and pressing it to her side.

Sherlock froze.

Belle, even in her state, felt every muscle she was leaned against tense. Even peering up, she saw that his face had turned rigid, eyes boring into her with a fixed, contemptuous stare. There was also surprise, and wariness, and vast discomfort.

But he did not shake her off.

Instead, he took a deep breath, and she felt his ribs expand against her arm as he did so, and looked away. His jaw was clenched, his back rim-rod straight. He took a step forward, slow and easy, and then another, aiding her as she stumbled along. Her head swam dizzily, feeling very suddenly lethargic and in desperate need of sleep. She stifled a yawn, leaning heavily against the detective, her small hand curling inside the woolen crook of his elbow to retain warmth against the night's wind.

Two minutes later saw the two standing outside of 323 Glentworth Street. Belle was still leaning against Sherlock, a dopey smile plastered on her face as she stared at the sign printed on the cherry-red front door before them. Sherlock, however, was expeditiously dissecting every aspect of the building, from the chipped green paint over the brick facade, to the yellowed windows, to the calligraphy text before his eyes.

"_Belle's Books: Buys & Sells Used Opuses, the Terminologically Exact and Inexact, and Other Printed Figments of the Mind—Worms are Welcome, Wankers are Not_," he recited, then turned his attention down to Belle, quirking a brow. "A bookshop?" his eyes narrowed, "Interesting."

There was a moment of silence.

"Bloody hell," Belle cursed, words slurring as she fought to remain conscious.

Sherlock peered down at her, especially when she withdrew her hold on him. She was currently padding her backside, wavering precariously on her feet. Her unruly hair spilled across her face as her search grew more and more fervent, and even more colorful words slipping sluggishly past her lips. Sherlock watched her for a moment, amused despite himself.

"You dropped it."

Belle peered up at him through strands of her hair. "Huh?"

"You dropped your key," he sighed, "In your drunken zeal, no doubt."

"Well, shit," Belle sighed drowsily, rubbing her eyes with bandaged hands. "This sucking fucks."

"No matter," Sherlock stated, hand reaching out and flicking something quickly out of her hair.

Belle stumbled back, startled, and tapered her eyes to see the slim black object in the detective's long fingers. She tilted her head to the side, bemused. He made quick work with the bobby-pin, twisting it open and inserting it within the keyhole of the varnished, brass doorknob.

"Bloody hell," Belle muttered, patting her head. "What else is up there?"

The door clicked open a moment later and Sherlock let himself in before Belle, flicking on the lights and instantaneously peering around the shop, soaking in each and every attribute he could. He circled, eyes glancing from one thing to the next, never needing to linger on anything for long. Belle barged in after him, nearly tripping over the threshold. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, smiling so widely that Sherlock found himself once again lingering on those dimples.

The shop was very quaint. It was evident that it had long ago been a small pub. The flooring had been cobbled in a crude manner, stone cut unevenly and a current tripping hazard to the intoxicated shop-owner. What walls were left to be seen were a whitewashed, crackling stone, but nearly every inch of the one-room shop was covered by various styles of bookshelves, some crumbling, some a thick mahogany, others a bright canary yellow with strange strains on the sides. Books were everywhere, not only having filled every shelf to capacity, but littered the ground in stacks and columns, forming strange, whirling pathways from one end of the shop to the other. There was an alcove on the right side of the shop, a nook with a lopsided side-table and a plush, velveteen lounger in a verdant shade of green; the wall behind it became shorter and shorter until it was clear that the customer would have to crawl along the floor to read the book titles.

At the other side of the room, Sherlock noted the hidden entrance to a room behind a bookcase, and felt his fingers twitch with insatiable curiosity to peer inside.

Near the back of the shop was where the old bar stood, now used as a raised desk with an old register and phone settled on one end. Strewn across it were various bottles of wine (all empty), the last remnants of fermented grapes having stained the wooden counter-top. The room smelled of cheap liquor, burnt coffee, used, aged books, and the sweet tang of incense.

"Home shit home," Belle muttered, opening her eyes, and venturing forth through the fray of books.

Sherlock was momentarily impressed how she trekked through the piles of books without so much as a stumble into them, but journeyed towards the back of the shop where an old, Persian blanket was draped across a doorway.

He followed her, traversing the bookmarked pathway, keeping an eye on Belle. Beyond the blanketed doorway was a small kitchen, and Sherlock was once again amused to see how abused it was. It was clear that Belle Archer, owner of Belle's Books, could not cook if her life depended on it. There was little cookware to be seen, the cupboards open and nearly bare, and Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that the same was true of the refrigerator. There were few dirty dishes in the sink, which were beginning to grow interesting shades of mold. The faint scent of burnt food seemed to permanently hang in the air.

Belle disappeared behind another door to the left, ambling up a flight of moldering, red-carpeted stairs. At one point she stumbled in her frenzy to her flat above, and Sherlock once again caught her by the arm. He righted her, ignoring how small but strong she felt to him, how beneath the strident aroma of whiskey he could detect her magnolia-scented shampoo.

In response, she ducked her head beneath her arm, peering at him with a now trademark impish grin. "Thanks much, Sherry. You're mighty useful. I think I'll keep you around."

The stairs led to an upper level which contained a narrow hallway decked in floral wallpaper, which smelled less like used books and more like the hint of incense he had detected before. And magnolias. There were three doors, and Sherlock once again twitched his fingers to open the two closed ones they passed. _Later_, he promised himself, and followed the girl, feeling much more curious than he should.

Belle flung the last door open, rushing inside to unceremoniously plop herself onto a bed. Like the shop and the rest of the flat, it was remarkably small. However, unlike the rest of the shop and what little he had seen of the flat, it was remarkably tidy.

Like the shop, the walls were white and crackling, but was offset with minimal pieces of low-rise black furniture. A tatami bed centered one wall, nearly taking up the expanse of the room, with a dresser on one side and a pagoda lamp on the other. Above the bed a long, lethal-looking katana was displayed, the blade ornately etched with markings Sherlock had never seen before. On the lone wall opposite the blade, a vastly elegant kimono was hanging from a rack, the only item of true color in the room; the heavy silken folds picked up the light, illuminating the intricate depiction of a dragon scrolled across the obi. It was a soft golden color, with highlights of red cherry blossoms, swirling with subtle shades of light green and blue. The room cemented more than one of his previous analysis of her, and he eyed the kimono with great interest, but filed them away for further inspection.

Then, as Belle turned over on her bed, Sherlock stood at the threshold, feeling just a miniscule of discomfort. He had been in many odd—often dangerous—situations, but no situation quite like this. She sighed heavily, raking a hand across her face as she stared at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked rather harshly, abruptly unsure about this strange, inebriated girl and not liking it one bit.

"Bored," she muttered, eyes beginning to flutter. "Are you bored, Sherry?"

Sherlock was silent, allowing himself time to peer into every corner of the bedroom. He sighed, but quietly and slowly as his hard eyes landed once more on her. His hands were once again shoved inside his coat pockets, his posture impeccable.

"You're not bored, you're exhausted. And no," he stated pragmatically, his deep voice barely quieting when he continued, "I'm not bored."

He pulled his gaze away from her at the end of his response, but caught Belle shrug in his periphery and burrow herself even deeper into multiple quilts, and noted it was rather cold inside her flat. She yawned, brushing aside a lock of hair from her eyes. The cockeyed grin appeared, then faded away as her eyes closed and her breathing began to even out.

"Well, catch you on the flipside. And don't forget to wipe your nose. You may be like ice, Sherry, but you'll never make bogeys cool."

— — —

The moment Sherlock Holmes entered 221B Baker Street from having walked Belle Archer to 323 Glentworth Street, Doctor John Watson opened his mouth only to find himself fixing the detective with a look of utter confusion. He hadn't moved from his position when Sherlock had left, nearly ten minutes prior, his laptop still powered on and opened to his blog, a cup of tea sitting on his left.

The very faint smile of triumph that now adorned the only consulting detective's face, as it always had in the past, brought a wave of wariness and suspicion to the doctor. His mouth agape, John furrowed his brow and watched as Sherlock closed the door to their flat and flung his coat onto the couch. He was peering down at his palm, and—finally shutting his mouth—John saw something small and brass glimmer in the warm light of the living room.

"Well?" he prompted.

Sherlock didn't flinched, the smiled wiped off his face, the pensiveness in his eyes hardening back into its mold of cool, shrewd concentration. He clenched his fist, encasing whatever was inside.

"A key," he said, flicking his gaze towards John and smiling cockeyed. "I found it."

"A key?" John repeated, lost and confused, and definitely not for the first time when it came to Sherlock Holmes. "A key to what?"

"She lost it," Sherlock said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and throwing it on his growing pile of clothes atop the couch. He pivoted towards John, eyes gleaming with sheer keenness. "And I _found _it."

"Found it where?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock queried, mind clearly legions ahead. "Oh. Outside in the gutter."

"So…" John began. "You found her key and…?"

Sherlock scowled. "And what?"

John laughed, disbelieving. "And what? And you're going to return it to her, aren't you?"

Sherlock straightened at that, eyes tapering on his flatmate. He turned his back towards him, picking up his skull from the mantelpiece and tucking the key inside, almost tangibly feeling the look of disapproval on John's face.

"_Sherlock_."

"_What?_"

"You are going to return that key, that key to her _flat_, her _home_, the building where she _lives_, aren't you?"

Sherlock prickled. "I was planning on it."

"Tomorrow."

"Eventually," he modified.

John rubbed his eyes, exasperated. "Sherlock, you know as well as I do that if you truly wanted to bust into her flat to poke about her life—or anyone's for that matter—you would, with or without a key."

"Very true," Sherlock agreed, then quirked his brows. "Are you enabling me to break-and-enter?"

"Sherlock, just give the bloody key back to the poor thing, all right?"

Sherlock sighed, groaning and heaving himself into his own chair, and glowered over at his flatmate. He grabbed the doctor's cup of tea, ignoring when he spluttered in protest, and then snatched the remote to turn on the telly, flipping to a program that he knew the doctor absolutely despised. When he glanced at John, watching him from the corners of his narrowed eyes, even he couldn't keep the childish petulance from his voice.

"You never let me have any fun."


	5. Aftershocks

Author's Note: Um, well, crap. That pretty much epitomizes my updating skills, huh? For a few months Life deemed itself as One Colossal Turd, so updates were just not happening, of which I'm very sorry for. Please don't tomato me.

This chapter is a bit...different. Heavy. And less funny. But I need to get Belle's character development chugging along. Brace yourself, okay? Also, it won't happen for some time, but I wrote the scene where Belle meets Mycroft. Oh God, the snarky banter that ensues. But thank you for reading. **Please** _review_.

— **Shot in the Dark **—  
(Chapter Five: "Aftershocks")

The next morning saw Mrs. Hudson primly dressed (not wearing any shade even remotely affiliated to _purple_, mind you) and stepping outside to an already industriously busy Baker Street. She noted how the door to 221 now sported two very little dents of the lower half, and how chips of the black paints were scattered about the entranceway like dried little beetles.

She couldn't help but smile at the thought of the young slip of a woman from the night before, or how her tenants of 221B had reacted very differently to her—John, who (after all his time at Sherlock's side had honed his patience into something a saint would envy) had taken the girl's drunken shenanigans in stride; Sherlock, however, with all of his brilliant astuteness, had clearly been caught off guard. Again, a pleasant, almost satisfied smile spread across her face.

But having decided to take the long way around to her rubbish bins (feeling the need for a short walk and a lungful of crisp morning air after an interrupted night's sleep), Mrs. Hudson was more than taken aback when she turned the corner, bag of rubbish in hand, to see that her bins were currently in a state of vast disarray. They had been knocked down, completely askew, with their tin lids laying nearly a half dozen feet away. Like her poor front door, there were numerous cavities on them. She sighed wearily.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson said to herself, moving to right the bins. "She is going to be a troublesome one, isn't she?"

— — —

It was ten minutes after six in the morning, and Hugo Iverson lit his third cigarette.

Sleep still crusted his eyes, having gurgled a snort so cacophonous that it had woken him not thirty minutes before. It had been a very long night for him, having a sleep so disturbed that he flitted about on a mattress so lumpy and ancient it could have been a Victorian antique, mind plagued with the row earlier the evening before. He groaned, knowing he would have to make amends with his best mate one way or another.

As was his fashion, he chose another and grabbed the water gun he kept tucked beneath his bed for special occasions.

And so he stumbled out of the only pride and joy in his very simple existence, a small pub that he had procured from slyly fixing a game of poker nearly a decade before. The Pork Shoppe had once been the love life of a rotund, jolly-faced butcher, whose unholy attachment to bacon was only paralleled with the adrenaline rush of a high-stakes game of Texas Hold 'Em. Fortunately for Hugo, said butcher was an incompetent, red-faced, sausage-fingered shithead with cards.

Unfortunately for the butcher, he was introduced to Hugo, who wasn't.

The transformation from butcher's shop to pub hadn't been drastic. Hugo Iverson, by default, shied away from anything that triggered his sweat glands; over-expending physical effort in anything that didn't offer instant financial gain made him want to take a nap, and responsibility tended to give him an allergic reaction. So, instead of bovine carcases hanging from the ceiling, wobbly bar stools that he had paid a couple of neighborhood kids to fish out of dumpsters soon adorned the craggy, blood-stained floors. The glass-fronted display cases had been removed in wake of a full bar, and various tables sprouted in the remaining room. The name, out of serendipity, stayed.

Like its owner, the pub was unassuming but inadvertently charming, tucked away from the main thoroughfares of London like a forgotten toy in a cobwebby corner. However, his revenue was steady, his patrons local and loyal and a nightly fixture between pints of ale that had an affinity for being bottomless and miniature mountains of chips that hinted flavors of bacon.

But there was one thing in the world that Hugo Iverson safeguarded more than his pub or his acumen to everything lackadaisical.

And so Hugo moseyed across Glentworth Street, decked in a frayed band shirt, boxers, his trademark leather fedora, and flamingo slippers, and meaningfully offended an old couple by scratching his balls as they passed by and cracked a Cheshire grin at their horrified expressions.

He let himself inside the quaint bookshop with the key he kept tucked inside his cigarette case, the scent of old books and incense overcoming him once he stepped over the violently red threshold. For a moment he closed his eyes at the comfortable familiarity the scent brought to him, the image of a girl with unruly dark hair and gray eyes immediately appearing behind his eyelids. Sighing, he took another pull of his stogie and proceeded to traverse the narrow pathway inside, winding around stacks of books he knew that had yet to be inventoried.

Eventually, after a brief episode of stumbling into a rubbish bin, Hugo Iverson found himself inside Belle Tinker's bedroom.

It was dim and silent and he could detect a small silhouette curled within a pile of quilts on the low-rise tatami bed. As his eyes adjusted to the shadowed room, Hugo perched himself atop the dresser, cigarette in one hand and a small but very accurate water gun in the other.

Soon, the quiet around him was gradually broken by the soft, intermittent sound of Belle's breathing. Every few moments he heard her making a very gentle sigh in her sleep, something that sounded melodious and utterly peaceful, something that was not at all like Belle Tinker in full consciousness, and something that always stirred something within his stomach. He weakly burped.

Dutifully ignoring her sweet exhalations and dutifully aiming the water gun at the mass of waves sticking out of the quilts, Hugo flicked flicking the end of his cigarette into a potted plant nearby and fired.

There was a very brief moment of silence.

"If I'm in some street gutter and some wanker is pissing on me," a crotchety, sleep-chocked voice filled the room. "Beware. I'm going to punch you in the face with a chainsaw."

Hugo chuckled and reached back to pull away at the curtains behind him. The bedroom was abruptly swathed in bright, disgustingly peppy sunlight, and his smile widened when he saw the configuration of Belle Tinker stiffen beneath her folds of quilts and heard her groggy slew of profanities. He hopped off the dresser and lumbered around the corner of the bed, kneeling beside Belle and observing that her eyes were squinted and blearily blinking up at him without recognition.

He also observed—and not for the first time—that even moments after being pulled from sleep that Belle Tinker was all sharp corners, eyes glinting like half-hidden daggers, waiting for someone to run into them.

She grasped a handful of sheets, eyes clutched and muscles tensed and looking like she was still embattled with the nightmarish panther that prowled inside when she slept.

Her hair was in disarray, which was not an uncommon sight, as it was common knowledge that Belle held an affinity for anything contemptible, and pulled it off well. Knots tangled themselves around her head like a blackened, sun-baked daisy chain, one thick strand sticking to the corner of her mouth where she had drooled. Still half within the thrall of sleep, Belle attempted to wipe the hair from her face, but nearly slapped herself instead with her uncoordinated movements. Once she was successful, wafting the scent of magnolias and masking tape towards Hugo, he saw the hell-tinged, dark skin revealed beneath her eyes. He frowned.

Years of VIP status to the inner-workings of Belle's mind had not made him immune to her well-oiled antagonism, but it had made the sharp corners a little less sharp, granting him access to a few floors beneath the toxic levels any unwary, unknowing stranger encountered.

Hugo snorted while she relaxed her grip on the sheets and fell further into the highlands of quilts, blowing heavily through her nostrils; dust motes swirled in the sunlight like slivers of gold.

"A chainsaw, huh? Belle Tinker operating any sort of electrical equipment would send anyone fleeing in terror."

"You should see me with my electric toothbrush. I sometimes scare myself."

Two slender arms escaped their quilted confines, bending and elbows protruding into the air as Belle rubbed her eyes. She sighed weightily, like she was enduring a continuous round of pain. But that was thing with Belle Tinker—she was. Small burst of fuel for a forest fire, errant kindling, crooked fingers of lightning. That, and Hugo knew she had a love affair with hangovers.

When she propped herself on an elbow, eyes locking and loading onto his face, he saw recognition shove aside the ferocity to make room. Her lips were chapped and full, but she somehow transformed the smile into something thin and sharp.

"Shit," she sighed. "I've died, haven't I? Am I in Hell?"

She flickered her eyes about the room in a combination of blase and derisive interest, picking at a scab on her knuckle before her gaze fell onto him. Belle raised a razor-edged brow, and Hugo found himself wondering if the scab was a result of a round back in Ireland or a black-shelled testament of a more recent fight.

Hugo ran his fingers through his dark hair hesitantly, sighing himself. Then he felt the stubble across his face, over his cheeks, above his lip. Severely arched eyebrows made him perpetual youthful, both roguish and charismatic in an unkempt sort of way, but they shot down over very lashed brown eyes, and wondered very briefly how he looked in Belle's eyes.

"Why do you ask that?"

Something flashed in her eyes, and he abruptly felt chastised, guilty over what was said the prior night. What he had done. What was about to happen. That the coiled, battle-ready anger in his best mate's eyes were even more readied for war because of him. And he knew.

He knew that Belle Tinker was not a creature that easily forgave.

"Seeing your face was my first indication." She peered around, pressing two fingers to her right temple, like she always did involuntarily during a hangover headache. Not so much as to soothe the pain, but to physically acknowledge it, absorb it for later usage. "Where's Satan? I need to have a chit-chat with that serpent-tailed little shit."

Her other hand disappeared into the snarled mane, and she attempted to rake a hand through it. It caught almost instantly and her face pulled into a grimace. Hugo, despite himself, laughed.

"Your hair looks like a grenade went off inside."

For a moment the sharp corners rounded, a different sort of light peeping into Belle's gray eyes. Her mouth quirked, reminding Hugo of the person she used to be. When she had more of a soul, when there existed warmth rather than leagues of enigmas and legions of pugilists at the ready. When she wasn't constantly shit-facing herself into an entirely different person, a person who wasn't plagued with anger, haunted with pain, or martyred from the dark corners and hell hounds in her nightmares.

The moment quickly vanished.

"You called my mother," Belle said, and Hugo shivered.

It was said simply, her voice eerily dead of every emotion, and even her eyes withheld its usual tapered lava. There was nothing simmering beneath the surface, nothing waiting to erupt or rupture or implode like Belle's usual style. She was a feeler, mostly unable to control herself, but the words felt so otherworldly and so very _not Belle_ that is crawled across his skin. There was nothing incendiary about her eyes, just void of every fire he was used to seeing.

He didn't know whether it was the hangover's fatigue that had wiped away the verve, or if he should skulk across Glentworth and grab his best whiskey to at least ignite some sort of spark of the person she used to be, future maelstrom be damned.

"Look," he began, not knowing exactly how to begin. "I know I screwed the pooch yesterday..."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're fortunate that I don't take your euphemisms literally."

Hugo cocked his trademark swashbuckling smile, all dimples and richly impeccable straight teeth, hoping to gain one in return. "That's the point of euphemisms, lovie. You aren't supposed to."

Belle's answering smile warned that she was a predatory species. "You bleeding _called_ my _mother_."

"Actually, she called me."

"You _answered_."

She did not wait for him to respond, but simply pulled herself up onto trembling legs and pushed off the bed, stumbling minimally but snarling regardless when Hugo righted himself to aid her. Guilt sweltered within his chest and clung to his ribs, prying until he was almost breathless. Hugo Iverson was a creature of habit, and it was only Belle Tinker who could crumble the infrastructure of his bulwark of bullshit and make him care without trying to. He habituated between steins and plumes of smoke and shrouded underground covens of poker-players who bet with far more than their worldly treasures, and would maraud and decimate each archaic brick of his pub and every other of his worldly treasures with a sledgehammer if it would make her care like she used to.

That was the thing about Belle Tinker: she could be two people, a bright-eyed, sprightly intoxicated girl who was young and tactlessly joyful, and then someone whose eyes were molten and dark, a smile made for serpents and a scathing, wily remark on the tip of her tongue. She could be two people and always hold his loyalty within her small, scarred palms.

Hugo watched Belle carefully meander her way towards the door, one hand fisted at her side, knuckles bloodless, a vein protruding on her forearm. The other grasped the bronze doorknob unsteadily, and he saw her heave a huge breath, shoulders rising like a soldier readying to aim, before opening the door.

"Get out," she seethed, swinging it open.

Her nostrils were flared and she stood on a square beam of sunlight, gray eyes washed away into her very white skin. She almost disappeared into the crackling wall behind her, but Hugo could almost tangibly feel her ire quaking its warped fingers towards him. He stubbed is cigarette in the bed of her magnolia plant and forgot about the water gun.

"B, come on. Wai–"

She slammed the door shut, which was not unusual, because that was the only way she entered and departed rooms. He heard her uneven steps disappear down the hall alongside a sequence of curses, ones that she always managed to sound like flowery prose. He could imagine how small she looked within her flat's shadows.

Hugo heaved a breath. "Blast."

He swiftly rounded up a stringy afghan that had been tossed haphazardly in her closet (that smelled of stale beer and the 70s), then decidedly pulled out a tattered Star Wars shirt that she had stolen from him when she was thirteen and he was fifteen (that smelled of stale beer and the 80s). She had been remarkably boney back then, awkward and loose-limbed, with too large almond-shaped eyes for her narrow face. When he had discovered her penchant for kleptomania (and general rapport towards everything Han Solo), she had bestowed upon him a simple cockeyed, dimpled smile and punched him in the face when he moved to take it back.

Their friendship immediately blossomed. She kept the shirt and Hugo was taught how to render a man unconscious with his thumb. Now, however, their companionship thrived on beer stains and secrets.

Hugo tucked the shirt beneath his arm, shouldering the moldering horror of a blanket and left Belle's bedroom. The kimono caught his attention at the last moment, the overtly bright sunlight catching the silken threads of the dragon embroidered onto the back. It snarled elegantly to him, and he was ashamed to see the resemblance between the creature of myth and the girl who owned it.

Forty-eight seconds later, Hugo found Belle curled on the velveteen lounger tucked into a corner of her shop, guarded by towers of books and the sharp edges of printed words. It was dim inside, the sunlight having yet to puncture through the yellowish grime spread like paint across the front window. The shadows were prevalent, making the shop feel as small and threatening as its owner.

She was not sleeping, but clutching the side of her head, nostrils flared as she fought the pain. Taking a vast gulp of air, her eyes rounded onto him, completely black in the dimness. Everything about her curled body read she was losing the battle to remain conscious.

"You haven't left yet?" Belle asked, voice quiet but not soft. "You know where the door is. Use it."

"B, come on."

"I don't care that your tail is between your legs. _Out_."

Hugo pressed his lips together, because lurking beneath her words was more than her usual fire-brand anger, but betrayal. It was in the way she held herself, lying on the enchantingly green lounger as though she was willing it to swallow her whole.

Hugo took a deep breath, incense and the archaic dustiness of old books filling his lungs. A book of Greek mythology skimmed his fingertips, the thick mahogany of the old bar standing on his left. He clutched the edge, wondering how the hell he was going to fix this, fix her.

"Belle, it's just your mother. She would've found out eventually."

"_Just_ my mother?" Something between a snort and a scoff resounded in the small space. "Did you think I was under some pall of sheer ignorance to believe she'd never find me? I merely thought it'd be by one of her own lackeys or the Pap. Not... not this."

He read the undercurrent of her words. The _not you_ of them. It was raw but not filled with her usual venom. Lethargy was filling her tone, making it sound sweeter than she actually was, kinder like when she used to be.

"B, I'm–"

"Don't say it. Leave."

"I'm sorry."

"Stuff it."

"_Belle_."

"Fine. _Kindly_ stuff it."

A moment of silence. Hugo's heart thrummed. He could not feel it beat, but the sensation of it beneath his chest was palpable. He watched her skim a hand up her arm as though she was cold, watched her burrow further into the lounger, watched her heave the heaviest of sighs and clench her eyes tightly shut.

He was at her side in two seconds, laying his old Star Wars shirt on the arm of the lounger, carefully tucking the warm folds of the afghan on her lap.

"I am sorry," he said at last. His voice was firm but apologetic. He vaguely caught the scent of magnolias. Of masking tape. The scent of their childhood. She did not look at him. "I just thought... It might help you to see... You haven't seen her since..."

He couldn't finish.

But Belle Tinker, hoarder of words and all things sharp, could.

"Since I found my father bludgeoned to death, you mean? A nice deduction, Hugo, but you thought wrong."

— — —

The next time Belle Tinker woke up, she was still not alone.

She didn't realize it until forty-three seconds after her eyelids pulled away from each other, and she moved very slowly as she stretched out the tightly wound coils in her muscles. Fatigue still clung beneath her skin, making her eyes heavy and her movements languid. A battering ram resided in the back of her skull.

There were not many things left in the world that frightened her, but the horrors that perpetually hounded her when she slept topped the list. Sleep was a luxury even her mother couldn't afford. A treasure that she feared she would never find. Still, she was a creature of irony. Waking up were the moments she loathed the most these days: detangling herself from suffocating mounds of quilts, heart trying to make a mad dash out of her chest, the battering ram pounding away to some love song.

Asleep and fighting for her life was far better than awake and remembering what life used to be.

This morning, however, something was different.

She was cocooned within a shabby afghan made from a trifecta of hellish colors and smelled of decade-old marijuana, and Belle remembered the careful, concerned way Hugo had settled it on her lap, movements slow so as to not upset the untamed animal. Their argument felt like years ago, hundreds of memories and feelings away. The hurt, the searing resentment, did not.

Instinctively, Belle balled her fists.

With effort, she attempted to thwart the anger by finding solace in her surroundings. The morning sun was much more stark than earlier, lighting the bookshop in a creamy sort of glow that was much more fitting for an enchanted forest glade out of some leather-bound book of hers. Even the green of the lounger looked inherently mystical, the vast assortment of books winding uncanny pathways like the Himalayan mountain range around her, towering and all-encompassing and so magnetically beautiful, brought an easiness to her that only books could give.

For a moment, rightness filled her. Opening the shop despite her loathing people, moving to London despite her love of home, being so close to Hugo despite his bad breath, was so utterly _right_. It swelled within her chest, pushing out the aroma of incense that always lingered about her, the timeworn decay of books, the perpetual scent of gasoline that only wafted in her nightmares.

Something else was right about that moment. But also something inexplicably wrong.

Belle opened her eyes again, much more awake and alert than before. All the time spent easing the tensity in her muscles was for nothing, because a millisecond later she felt everything within her body harden to stone, pulling taut and locking into place. Battle ready. War bound. Soul departing. Her fists quivered.

Standing beside the old bar was a tall silhouette, black and nothing but sharp corners, waiting and remote like some spectral creature that only resided in her nightmares. As the seconds ticked away, face swallowed by the shop's dissipating shadows, just out of reach of the satiny sunlight and waltzing dust motes, the profile began to look less like something that wanted to kill her and more like some necromancer out of a fantasy novel. It didn't move, but she knew its eyes were locked onto her.

Her heart returned to its natural tempo, and Belle blew heavily through her nostrils and tilted her head back onto the velveteen lounger. She closed her eyes, noting for the smallest of moments that beyond the scent of incense and books, she caught the heady scent of tobacco commingled with something very clean.

"Zombie," she declared, testing the waters.

There was a very brief moment of silence.

The silhouette did not move. "Excuse me?"

Belle found herself astonished over the voice—deep and full-toned, something simultaneously predatory and ready to devour and something that was to be listened to from an ornate balcony. She quirked her head towards the voice, the unseeable within the silhouette, and effectively activated the battering ram's second wind and winced at the pounding.

"You're excused," she said offhandedly, running her hands across her face and feeling each callous dig into her skin. She sighed, "I feel like a zombie. My faculties are completely off kilter."

Another moment of silence, one where Belle felt like she was being thoroughly analyzed, and wondered if this was what caged animals felt like. Spectators standing afar, watching each movement, examining each aspect because this was not an everyday creature to take for granted. She blew hotly through her nostrils, making the attempt to remain civil despite the fact this man was as equally strange and precarious.

Then, The Voice: "It appears nothing has changed from the last time I've seen you, then."

Belle perked up, but tried to appear as disinterested as possible. It was against her code to take too much interest in people.

"Oh?" a brow rose. "We've met?"

The silhouette remained still, still nothing more than a mass of black. There was nothing for her to derive from it, other than that he was tall, had a voice made from thunderclouds and Shakespeare's imagination, and could give a person the impression of having the world's weightiest diagnostic stare without actually being seen. Belle's eyes narrowed.

"You woke my landlady in a drunken stupor last night."

Belle bit her bottom lip, attempting to pierce the haze of last night's events, the aftershock of her row with Hugo and the thirteen shots of whiskey. Static filled her ears, nothing tripped her memories. That was the beauty and bliss of alcohol-induced blackouts: bitterness and betrayal were never invited to the party.

She shrugged.

"Oh. Well. Knowing me that should explain everything. But since you don't, I'm sure it doesn't," she said, then nodded in the direction of the very red threshold. "How did you get in here?"

He stepped forward.

Although he was a good seven feet away, Belle still had to crane her neck from her corkscrew position on the low, plush lounger. He was impossibly tall, a statue that had been painstakingly chiseled, a rendering of a being that was not classically beautiful, but powerful in the way one looks up at a skyscraper and is made almost breathless.

He looked less spectral than his silhouette, but there was something to be said in the ensorcelled way he held himself, that either he was the stoic wizard or the wizard's stoic familiar—back rim-rod straight, head held aloft, long arms clutched together at the base of his back.

His eyes were bright and all things cold, a conjuration of an intelligence that held no summit, possessing the ability to see long before others opened their eyes.

He gave Belle the impression that he had not taken his imperious gaze off her for quite some time, and her hackles rose at the way it made her feel as though she were being weighed on his judicious scale. The more she returned his gaze, brows lowering, the more his eyes tapered; she couldn't tell whether in thought or in threat. For the smallest of moments, Belle wondered if she was weighed wanting. The next, she knew she was. The next after that, she reminded herself not to care.

His face remained impassive. "Through the door, obviously."

"The shop is closed."

He was unrepentant and unrelenting. "The door was open."

And then Belle noticed it, the small, dark configuration on the counter of her book shop's desk. The iron key to the front door, lying where she would never put it even in a drunken frenzy, where Hugo would never lay it because Belle Tinker was rarely without it. She was a sentinel of books, the shop her ward and her lifeblood, and would not forsake her duty by losing it. She raised a brow at him and saw something flash within his very blue, cold-as-ice eyes.

Belle settled further into the lounger, smiling her sharp, ravening smile, knowing that her dimples softened the look and feeling a little put out because of it. Something flashed once more in his eyes, as if he either knew, or had read her thoughts.

She cleared her throat. "So, what can I help you with, Mr. Holmes?"

If he was expecting anything from her, that wasn't it. This time his brows fell in clear bewilderment, the tips of his lashes meeting the skin beneath his arched eyebrows, and she saw how rare an expression it was on him. Despite herself, thrill surged within her.

"Liar," he accused, voice impossibly deeper. She could almost feel it reverberate through her own chest. His eyes narrowed, all haughty knowing and accusation. "You remember last night."

She shrugged, a dangerous sort of nonchalance. "Not in the slightest, try again."

His lips pressed together, evident that he was raking his already accelerated mind. "You know me."

"_Of_ you."

He was visibly bristling, eyes narrowed into a dangerous sort of irritation. Standing within a hallow of sunlight, his head lowering, the shadows beneath his cheekbones began to look like razors, all sharp corners and glacial eyes. A dark curl of hair tumbled onto his forehead. "_How_?"

Belle gave a cheeky, cockeyed smile, and saw that his eyes flickered to the corners of her mouth. She pointed to the top of her head. "Your hat."

He frowned. "I'm not wearing one."

"No shit, Sherlock," Belle snorted, then froze, then began peering around the lounger and the mesa of books piked around her. She tore the afghan from her lap and casually launched it onto a bookshelf. "Wait, crap. Neither am I. Where the bloody hell did it go?"

Belle missed the realization dawning like arctic light on his face, but searched ardently for her trademark hat. She bit her bottom lip in search, eyes catching on the black, threadbare Star Wars shirt that was lying on the arm of the lounger. Suddenly the argument with Hugo earlier resounded in her ears. Every scathing word, every surge of betrayal, every wounded, apologetic look in his very brown, expressive eyes. Hugo Iverson was a creature of habit, and Belle knew he was not used to her anger being unleashed towards him. Him trying to right his wrongs only made the bitterness that much more sour, something she couldn't swallow. It merely boiled within her.

Very suddenly again, Belle Tinker felt the irrepressible need for fresh air.

"You read about me. When John's online scrapbook hit the papers."

Belle rounded on him. The expression of epiphany she had initially missed had long vanished on his face, replaced instead with his narrowed, analytical visage. And something else. Something that was as equally knowing, but less penetrating. Something that she saw in the way his eyes promptly flickered over her face and then her body now that she was standing upright. Something that was still dissecting, weighing.

As a knee-jerk reaction, she resorted to her usual brand of sarcasm, the only language she was truly fluent in.

"Ding, ding, ding. Nice deduction. They said you were good."

"Oh, she bites."

Belle cracked a grin, finding it surprising at how genuine and aged it felt. She wiped it off and settled for a cocked, dimpled smile that she knew didn't reach her eyes, and shrugged. "That she does. Well, are you coming or not?"

This took him by surprise, and Belle relished at how this seemed like such a rarity for him and she had achieved the expression twice within ten minutes of knowing him. Then she had the prickling realization that he had already systematically evaluated her the night before, and Belle wondered just what kind of drunken shenanigans she had involved him in. She could envision the way he probably had scrutinized her, picking each aspect with vulturine efficiency before nabbing the key to her bookstore and flat.

Something hot and bristling filled her stomach, flushing her face in something akin to puzzlement.

Before he could detect it, Belle turned away and grabbed the Star Wars shirt, pulling it on and twisting the white beer-stained one underneath. She pulled it out of the sleeve and tossed it towards the afghan, letting it catch on a book and hang like a barmaid's rag. With delight, she found the frayed bowler hat beneath the lounger and plopped it atop her head, knowing how ill-dressed she looked in her faded jeans and holey shirt and too-large boots and loving every moment of it.

She stepped over an alp of books, graceful with the movement due to practice, lithe despite her raging hangover, and snagged the beaten, timeworn green leather jacket hanging off a peg nearby, unaware that Sherlock Holmes was locked onto her movements with investigative raptness.

He seemed to be waiting for her attention, so when she adjusted the jacket around her slim shoulders and peered up at him with wide, canny eyes, his deep voice asked warily, "Where to?"

"Breakfast," Belle replied, bending over to tighten the laces of her boots. "I'm in dire need of pancakes. I tend to eat my feelings rather than deal with them, especially when I'm hungover. You can tell me about all the shit I put you through last night."

Sherlock linked his arms behind his back, eyeing her distrustfully. "Dressed like that?"

Belle eyed him in return, gaze lingering on the black tweed of his jacket, and very briefly wondered how the texture would feel beneath her fingertips, if his hair was as silken as it look. She snapped her eyes away, but screwed up her face to appear scathing and loved how natural it felt. She missed how his gaze flickered from the key on the old bar to hone resolutely on her face.

"Like _what_? Clothes are clothes. It gets the job done. Besides, it's not like we're off to have tea with the Queen." Belle waggled a brow, a brief flicker of the intoxicated girl from the night before. "Unless you know a guy, of course."


End file.
